


Engagements

by Vincible



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vincible/pseuds/Vincible
Summary: Command's latest scheme seemed to be playing matchmaker in the hopes that couples would eventually bond and produce the sparklings Cybertron so desperately needed. The crazy part was that they seemed to be doing a pretty good job. Now if only they were half as competent dealing with the trouble brewing out in space.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Engagement:  
> 1\. a formal agreement to get married.  
> 2\. a fight or battle between armed forces
> 
> \---
> 
> The first couple of chapters of this have been sitting around for over three years now. I have no real plans to continue this story beyond what I've already written, but I figure I should post this anyway.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first Prowl heard of it was during a stilted attempt at small talk with a member of a fellow maintenance crew while they waited for their Teletraan systems to synchronize. Prowl didn't often have comms duty, not because he couldn't handle the monotony of waiting for calls that weren't likely to come, but because he so often floundered on those occasions when they actually were hailed. He could get through standard protocol fine, but when a mech had been confined to the same few faceplates for what seemed to be vorns unending, they got a bit chatty when someone who wasn't part of their crew came along. That was why Bumblebee was their default for comms duty. Now there was a mech who could gossip until the second coming of Unicron.

Prowl? Not so much.

Anyone who'd even heard about Prowl knew that he was something of a cyberninja and that cyberninja were, by definition, the antithesis of chatty.

The mech on the other end of the comm line, not to be discouraged, prattled on anyway. Prowl occasionally broke in with a 'hmm' or an 'uh-huh' or an 'I see,' but mostly watched the screens with increasing desperation. Teletraan was a good idea, in theory. Every Autobot vessel was equipped with a scanning system that would passively monitor conditions in and around the ship before sending the collected data back to a central hub on Cybertron where it would be processed by an advanced AI with the designation Teletraan-1. In this way, High Command, and all those under their jurisdiction, would be up to date on all happenings anywhere in Autobot space.

Or, at least, that's how it was supposed to work.

As maintenance crews spent most of their time in the far reaches of backwater quadrants, they likewise spent most of their time beyond the reach of standard forms of communication. This meant that the Teletraan system on any given ship would most likely be out of date when it came to news from Cybertron or even more remote crews. Whenever one ship came within range of another, or a communications relay, the crew would have to stop and sync systems in an attempt to get themselves up to speed.

Teletraan, Prowl thought as the mech on the other end of the line went on and on, had been incredibly useful back when they'd had the resources and the workforce to keep the transmission times down and a war making the information relevant. Now that the war was over? Teletraan was just a pain. He slouched in his chair, a far cry from his normally perfect posture, drumming his digits restlessly and trying not to vent in frustration. The download had to finish at some point, even if every passing breem made him want to bang his helm repeatedly against the control panel. 

"So, have you heard?" The question would've been more intriguing had the mech not asked it six times already. Each time, he'd started a new tangent of gossip whether or not Prowl had heard about it or wanted to hear about it. Prowl had long since stopped caring about what is was the mech was going on about, more interested in watching the load bar inch past 90%. 

"There's a new rumor going around that Magnus is finally going to do something about the population crisis." the mech confided.

"Uh-huh." said Prowl, still watching the screen.

"They say he's come up with a plan to repopulate Cybertron, but, I mean, what's he gonna do? The last of the stored sparks got used up making the latest generation and, without the Allspark, he can't exactly do anything, can he?"

"Uh-huh." Almost there.

"If he was going to start up another one of those pointless searches for the Allspark, you think we would've heard about it by now. They made us help with the last three, after all. Lot of good that did them." The last part was spat out bitterly, although it was hard to tell if the mech was bitter about not having found the Allspark after all that effort or if he was bitter about having been required to make all that effort in the first place.

"Uh-huh."

"Unless Ultra Magnus is planning to pull sparks from his exhaust, - and who'd want sparks that came outta that, am I right? - nothing about our situation is gonna change. We're dying out. We gotta face facts. Magnus is just pandering to the masses, trying to keep them calm. Like we haven't forgotten whose brilliant idea it was to shoot the Allspark off into space in the first place. 'We can't let the Decpticons have it,' he says. Fat lot of good that's doing us now, huh?" On second thought, maybe the mech was just angry at High Command in general. Understandable, given the circumstances.

"Uh-huh."

"If we gotta go out, we should go out with a bang. You know what I'm saying? None of this slowly rusting away slag. I'm talking about a party. A big party. B-I-G, big. This one time, on Onyx 7," Dear Primus, not another one of these stories, "me and some bots got together and-"

The load bar filled to completion and a message appeared informing Prowl that the preliminary data transfer had been completed. He sprang into action, digits tapping the control panel.

"I'm sorry-" Blast it, what was this mech's name again? "I'm going to have to cut you off. The sync's done and I need to begin processing the data."

"Ouch. Got one of those commanders that makes you do it manually, huh?"

"Protocol is protocol." Prowl avoided. Optimus was something of a stickler for the rules, but he understood that expecting a poorly equipped maintenance crew to follow standard operating procedures meant for Elite Guard members back on Cybertron was stupid and unrealistic. As such, he was fairly lenient with his crew cutting certain corners.

Not that Prowl was going to tell this mech any of that.

"Keep telling yourself that. Just try not to kill the bot after the hundredth report on asteroid positions or icing on the lower hulls. Anyway, nice talking to you!"

"To you as well." Prowl replied in the most carefully neutral voice he could manage before turning off the comms with no small amount of relief. With the stroke of a few keys, Teletraan's automated programs got to work processing the data and compressing it into one easy to read report leaving Prowl free once more to monitor the comm traffic for any incoming transmissions. 

The conversation, if you could call it that, was quickly forgotten.

  


* * *

  


The second time it came up, Prowl had been in med bay having a checkup. Medical scans were by no means unusual. Ratchet often ran them on the crew. There were scans when medical records needed updating. There were scans when an outbreak of some kind had been reported in their area. There were scans when the crew's hijinks got Ratchet riled up enough that it was either strap the offending bot to an examining table for a few joors or disassemble them.

Primus, sometimes it felt like Ratchet ran scans because he was bored and couldn't think of anything better to do.

In short, scans weren't anything out of the ordinary. Neither were Ratchet's curses. Just the opposite, in fact. The crew found a quiet Ratchet to be more unnerving than a Ratchet snarling at everything in the cosmos.

Needless to say, Prowl was more relaxed than most mechs would have been as he lay back on a medical berth and waited for an angrily muttering Ratchet to gather up his tools. He watched, interested, as the medic blustered about their small med bay pulling this and that out of various drawers. Prowl didn't know what half those things were, but Ratchet handled all of them like Prowl handled his shuriken: with an ease born of long familiarity.

"Alright. Open up." Ratchet commanded, setting down a tray ladened with equipment on a nearby counter and deftly selecting his tools.

Prowl complied, sliding back an assortment of panels hiding medical uplinks before opening black chest plates. Ratchet went to work. It was all fairly routine. Ratchet inspected his processor for errors and made sure his antiviral coding was up to date before moving on to the physical exam. His joints were tested, his internals probed, and his lines checked. That done, Prowl began moving panels back into place only to have Ratchet reach out and keep his chest plates from closing.

"Not so fast." he chided and pulled out one final piece of equipment. It was one Prowl recognized.

"You need to scan my spark?" he asked in equal parts worry and confusion. Medics didn't scan sparks unless it was time for files to be updated or they suspected something was wrong. Prowl's medical records were up to date, Ratchet had made sure of it.

The medic snorted, digits deep in Prowl's chassis. "Don't get your wires in a twist. High Command wanted updated information on everyone onboard."

"Why?" Command rarely bothered with updating medical records unless the bureaucracy demanded it.

"Beats the heck out of me. I get orders out of the blue to scan you lot and send all the data, and I mean all the data, off to High Command on the double. Like I didn't have anything better to do with my time." He grumbled as he fiddled with the scanner. "They were particularly anxious that I get them accurate readings of spark signatures."

"Any idea why?" Prowl angled his torso to give Ratchet better access as he attached the equipment to Prowl's spark chamber.

"Please, like those slagheads would ever tell us grunts anything. Don't want our pretty little processors frying themselves worrying about the big picture. Seems to me like someone at Command had another 'brilliant' idea. Just can't leave well enough alone, can they?" He adjusted a few more dials on the control panel and turned to Prowl, servo hovering just over the activation key. "I'm gonna start it up now."

Prowl braced himself. He had yet to meet a Cybertronian who didn't find spark scans to be at least slightly invasive and uncomfortable. Ratchet turned it on and the scanner's energies mingled unpleasantly with Prowl's own for a moment before they subsided and the scanner shut itself off with a beep.

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" he chuckled at the glower he got from the black and gold mech. He knew full well Prowl was more sensitive than most when it came to such scans. He unhooked everything and Prowl wasted no time closing his chest plates and sitting up, ready to slide off the table and out of med bay as soon as Ratchet gave his go ahead.

Ratchet studied some screens for a moment before giving Prowl and approving nod.

"Looks good. Anyway, I wouldn't worry about this whole thing too much. We all know how this goes. Command will get all fired up about this new scheme of theirs, but you give them enough time and they'll forget they even thought it up in the first place. You're free to go. Make sure to get Prime to stop by before he works himself to death or gets lost in those history vids of his again."

Prowl was gone without a sound to track down their leader, rubbing gingerly at his chassis but otherwise putting the whole discussion behind him.

  


* * *

  


The third time it was brought up, everyone took notice.

The third time it was brought up was during one of Ultra Magnus' Addresses to Cybertron. They happened several times a vorn and most Autobots chose to ignore the prerecorded broadcasts. Optimus, dutiful leader that he was, summoned the crew to the bridge's main screen every time there was a broadcast, and every time the crew grudgingly made an appearance, more out of loyalty to Optimus than any real interest in what the politicians had to say. Still, it would provide good gossip fodder for the next couple of cycles or so.

All viewings followed more or less the same basic formula. Optimus would arrive first, long before the rest of the crew, and would begin gently coaxing the transceivers until he was sure the ship would be able to view the broadcast without losing the signal halfway through. Next to arrive would be either Ratchet or Prowl, both on the lookout for a good chair. Ratchet preferred something he could doze off in should the Address be less than riveting, which it so often was. Prowl's selection would be the seat in which he could most easily contort himself into a meditative pose, so that he could likewise ignore the droning politicians. Bulkhead and Bumblebee would invariably rush in at the last moment, ladened with snacks and an assortment of odds and ends to pelt the screen with should Sentinel Prime make an appearance. 

The broadcast started out like all the others. Optimus was waiting intently, datapad at the ready should he want to take notes. Ratchet, displaying a keen interest in current events, was already napping. Prowl had folded himself up and was humming softly to block out the sound of the two youngest crewmembers, who had descended into the same argument they'd had every Address for the past several vorns.

"Sentinel’s chin is too big." Bulkhead argued. "There's no way it should be worth fifty points."

"Have you seen his chin?" was Bumblebee's retort. "You should lose points every time you don't throw something at it!"

The calm gaze of Ultra Magnus watched them from the screen, though it was doubtful he'd maintain his composure if he could see the ragtag assortment of mechs who were watching back. Slowly, his visage morphed from the benevolent leader they'd become accustomed to into something harsher, something reminiscent of how he'd looked during the war.

Whatever he was going to announce, it was serious.

"My fellow Autobots," he greeted, as he always did at the beginning of his speeches, "there is something that has been troubling me, been troubling us, for some time now. We've been pretending that nothing is wrong, that the fear lurking in our sparks does not exist, but that stops now."

He paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts or, more likely, for dramatic effect.

"My fellow Autobots, we are dying out."

The admission startled Bulkhead and Bumblebee out of their squabble, which had descended into throwing things at each other. They joined the others, including a now awake Ratchet, in staring, transfixed, at the screen. Ultra Magnus continued, no doubt aware of the reaction his words were causing throughout Cybertronian space.

"The Allspark is lost and, despite our best efforts, it seems as though it will continue to remain beyond our grasp. All of our stored sparks have been used creating what pessimists among us are already calling 'The Last Generation.' It seems as though we beyond saving now. That, through our own violent and regrettable actions, we have doomed ourselves beyond the hope of rescue. Our extinction, at this point, seems an inevitability. But so too, I remind you, once did our defeat by the Decepticons."

"My fellow Autobots, I stand before you today not to tell you to prepare for the end, but instead to prepare for a new beginning."

"Long did I search through ancient records, hoping that someone who had come before had preserved a method to save my people. Yet it seemed my search was all for naught. I too began to succumb to the fear and desperation which hold so many of us in their grasp."

"And then I found it. A way to make new life without the blessings of the Allspark. An ancient way. A lost way."

"Our ancestors deemed that this knowledge should be forgotten. Gifted, as they were, with the light of the Allspark, they saw no reason to make sparks in this fashion. They saw it as crude and barbaric, a far cry from the refinement of our Golden Age, and therefore something to be discarded and forgotten. Perhaps they were justified in their reasoning, but I doubt they ever could have imagined the orn when our planet, bereft of the Allspark, became barren of even the smallest of new sparks."

"Therefore, by the authority vested in me as Magnus, I am abolishing those laws which forbade both interfacing and sparkbonding in the hopes that it might bring about our salvation."

"I will warn you now, this is not a solution which will see our population swell in a single cycle. It will take time."

"Rest assured, I have already taken this into account. As I speak to you, there are members of High Command working tirelessly to put my plan into action and to ensure that the right bots are selected for the good of our future."

"I understand that you will have questions, and I will do my best to answer them. Of course, I am also aware that this is a lot to take in. So, for now, I will leave you to your thoughts. A more detailed explanation will have to wait for another time."

"This is Ultra Magnus, signing off."

It was, perhaps, the shortest Address Ultra Magnus had ever given. No one was in any mood to celebrate that fact. The bridge was perfectly still, the crew struck dumb by Ultra Magnus' speech.

"By the Allspark." Ratchet softly exclaimed. "What're those glitches thinking?"

"Umm..." Bulkhead spoke up, anxiously twiddling his digits. "What's interfacing?"

Bumblebee looked towards the other for an answer as well, remaining uncharacteristically silent. Optimus, ever the Prime, was quick to try and reassure his crew, though it was clear uncertainty was clouding his usually staunch belief in the Magnus.

"I don't know, Bulkhead. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Ultra Magnus will let us know when he thinks we're ready."

Ratchet began to grumble, perhaps to restore some sense of normality, but they could see he was just as shaken as the rest of them.

Prowl drew his limbs in towards himself, feeling oddly vulnerable, and began to in-vent and ex-vent in a steady pattern. It was unlikely any of this would affect them, as far away from Cybertron as they were. Maintenance crews were usually deemed too insignificant and were too widely dispersed to feel the impact of any major schemes. Getting wound up about this would serve no purpose. It was best to just ignore the whole thing.

None of Prowl's attempts to reassure himself could do anything about the feeling of dread settling in his spark.

  


* * *

  


The fourth time it was brought up, Prowl no longer had the option of ignoring it.

The fourth time it was brought up was in an unassuming piece of correspondence from Command nestled in with the rest of the messages and assorted junk in Prowl's inbox.

 _Maintenance Crewmember Prowl,_ it began.

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the unprecedented honor of helping to repopulate our great race..._

  



	2. Chapter 2

Complete panic, along with a whole host of other things related to the way of the cyberninja, involved a lot of stillness.

In fact, an outside observer, looking at Prowl with his limbs arranged in an elegant meditative pose, would think only serenity dwelt within such a being. This, of course, was nothing more than a cleverly constructed ruse. It was a common tactic amongst cyberninja to make themselves appear to be in complete control of a situation, especially when they weren't, so as to keep their opponents wary and off-guard.

During the war, Prowl had once watched a city some distance away suddenly and unexpectedly crumble down into the planet's crust, its supporting structures and lower levels too badly damaged by sabotage and hard fighting to hold it anymore. There had been no noise, no vibrations, to signal that such an event was about to happen and he'd only witnessed it by chance. He'd looked up from a stack of crates to see how many he still had to add to the inventory and had been surprised when a void had formed in the place of what had once been an Autobot outpost and, before the war, a thriving metropolis. He'd thought, rather dazed, as he watched the collapse, that it looked like the skyscrapers were trying to throw themselves to safety as they toppled over at odd angles.

He felt a little bit like the skyscrapers right now.

High Command had selected him? High Command hated him! The last time that they'd acknowledged him as anything other than a worker drone that occasionally required a paycheck, he'd nearly gone to prison. In fact, he would have gone to prison if the rest of the crew hadn't testified as character witnesses. He'd thought High Command would've been content to ignore his continued existence after that whole debacle.

And, instead, they had selected him for the 'honor' of repopulating Cybertron?

Was this some sort of trick? Was he being punished? What was even being asked of him?

Magnus' promised follow-up broadcast had yet to air, leaving them all with little more than baseless speculation and rumor. Even Bumblebee was having trouble keeping up with all the gossip being thrown about over the comms. There seemed to be half a million different opinions of what Magnus was planning, and no one idea seemed to last longer than an orn before it was rejected and replaced by a dozen more.

Prowl was steadfastly ignoring everything that was being said, knowing just enough to realize that everything relayed through Bumblebee's vocalizer was panicked sensationalism.

Unfortunately, he didn't actually know enough to keep himself that much calmer than the masses.

Prowl knew of sparkbonding. He'd seen in mentioned in scrolls written by old masters long since forgotten by history. They spoke of it with great reverence and respect. It was something sacred and not to be taken lightly. 

Interfacing had been mentioned exactly once in his existence thus far. He'd been barely a cycle old and, like others newly onlined, was hastily being stuffed with relevant information before being sent off to fulfill whatever purpose he'd been created to do. His instructor had only said that it was abhorrent and barbaric and had been abandoned before the Golden Age.

He wasn’t quite sure who or what to believe and the uncertainty was getting to him.

Prowl gave up on meditating, no technique he knew would be enough to soothe the jagged snarl of emotions within him, and stood up jerkily before beginning to pace. After a breem, he abandoned that as well and instead strode towards the door. He was clearly incapable of working through this on his own, so, instead, he would seek the council of the only mech onboard both older and wiser than himself.

Ratchet would know what to do. He had to.

  


* * *

  


At this period in the duty rotation, it was the dark shift. Cybertron itself did not alternate between day and night, as some other planets did. Instead, it existed in a state of perpetual twilight and, at least at its height, the great metropolises which had blanketed its surface had likewise remained full of light and activity, no matter the joor.

The planet had seemed, to outsiders, to be one that never slept.

The war had changed that.

They hadn’t had the energy to keep everything powered up all the time. They hadn’t had the resources to maintain an infrastructure which was being used to such a degree. Bright lights had only made it easier for enemies to scope out targets. Any light at all had meant that someone was there, and if someone was there, they might be a target. 

Enterprising enemies, frustrated and desperate in equal measure, had been only too happy to bomb, shell, or otherwise attack anything that looked like it might be a target.

Light discipline had become pretty well enforced pretty quickly.

Even now, after the war had ended and the Decepticons had retreated past the fringes of Cybertronian space, those practices had not been completely abandoned. A dark shift had been implemented on Cybertron and had likewise been adopted by crews of spacefaring vessels. However, these orn it was a time for overworked machinery and crew to rest, not simply a way to preserve fuel or hide. 

That wasn't to say that everyone liked the dark shift.

More often than not, there was little to do and, if you were unfortunate enough to be on duty, you ran the risk of running into or tripping over things in corridors lit only by dim, sometimes faulty, emergency lighting. Bumblebee was particularly vocal about his dislike, stating that since fuel was no longer in such desperate demand, such precautions were no longer necessary. He was a little less eloquent in his delivery, but his argument was valid. 

When Bee got particularly riled up, Optimus would be there soothe tempers by reminding them that they were still recovering from the war and that, eventually, such precautions would no longer be necessary. The rest of the crew didn't pay it any mind, figuring that it wasn't anything to get worked up over. 

Prowl was something of an oddity in that he loved the dark shift. Truly, genuinely enjoyed it. It was an opportunity to utilize his cyberninja training, a chance to further hone skills he'd never been given the opportunity to master. The darkness was not an opponent, not something he had to struggle with, but an ally, an old friend. It was easy, so easy, to slip into the darkness, movement quiet and nigh undetectable, until the line between shadow and mech became indistinct. Traversing the ship during the dark shift almost made him feel like he wasn't a disappointment. Like he hadn't failed his Master in every way that really counted.

Of course, despite what his habits and designation might suggest, Prowl did not spend every dark shift ghosting through the ship. Oftentimes, he'd take the opportunity to meditate. The lack of noise from both ship and crew helping facilitate a sense of stillness in Prowl's spark.

Fat lot of good the dark shift was doing for his state of mind today.

Prowl knew the way to med bay by heart and the sparse lighting did absolutely nothing to slow him down. What did put the occasionally falter in his stride was thinking how he was going to explain this to Ratchet. Neither of them were particularly good at heart-to-hearts, but they had, on occasion, managed to hold conversations - sometimes terse and stilted and sometimes honest and open - about the things that were bothering them. 

He wished fervently for a moment that Ratchet wouldn't be in med bay when he got there, so to spare himself the uncomfortable experience of relaying the news and its impact on his emotional state, and then immediately retracted the thought. If Ratchet wasn't in med bay at this time of the orn, then it was a Bad Orn and Ratchet had retreated to some secret place deep in the ship. Ratchet always disappeared on Bad Orns, hidden well enough that even Prowl couldn't find him. Not that Prowl went looking. Optimus, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee didn't go looking either. There were enough veterans in Maintenance Corps that everyone respected Bad Orns.

The way to med bay was thankfully empty, courtesy of the dark shift, and Prowl completed his journey with the rest of the crew none the wiser. He paused just outside, partially because he was still at a loss as to how to even begin to explain his circumstances, and partially because he could hear Ratchet cursing through the med bay doors. It wasn't normal cursing either. Ratchet really sounded like he meant whatever angry things were spewing from his vocalizer. He'd probably be throwing things if there'd been any hope of ever getting them replaced. Ratchet had fought too long and too hard to get a fully stocked med bay to ruin that, no matter how angry something had made him.

Prowl tapped the door controls and they slipped open, spilling light out into the hallway, just in time for him to witness one of the sturdier tools - a wrench maybe? - go soaring into a nearby wall. He winced at the resulting clang. Ratchet spun around, perhaps to find more ammunition, and caught sight of him standing in the doorway.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked, ready to leave should Ratchet prove to be completely unapproachable.

Ratchet froze. There was still anger in every line of his frame, but the manic energy of before had left him to be replaced by a sort of subtle embarrassment.

"I'm- going to ask you to pretend you didn't see that."

Prowl nodded. He'd seen Ratchet in worse states. He still didn't enter though.

After a moment, a little bit more anger bled from Ratchet's frame and he heaved a sigh. "Prowl, get in here. I can't help you with whatever's bothering you if you stand out in the hallway like some skittish turbofox. And, to be honest, I think I could use your help with-" he broke off and just sort of gestured around him. Prowl didn't know if that meant help picking up or help dealing with whatever had gotten Ratchet so riled up to begin with. He stepped inside anyway.

Now that he was through the doors, it was obvious that Ratchet had had some sort of carefully controlled breakdown. There were tools strewn about as if they'd been thrown, but they were all durable and easy to replace and the only places that showed signs of having something thrown at them were the thick walls of the ship, the cabinets full of medical supplies and equipment were untouched. All the chairs, even Ratchet's own, had been overturned, but the medical berths were still in place and none of the heavier equipment, the kind on wheels with their own built in monitors, had been so much as shifted from the organized row Ratchet kept them in.

He bent down and began picking things off the floor, handing them off to Ratchet for him to put away. Neither of them said anything as they returned med bay to its rightful state. They'd talk when they were ready.

Finally, when order had been restored, Ratchet took a seat in his usually spot by his desk and Prowl pulled up one of the visitor's chairs. Ratchet's desk was a short, squat thing with a large monitor that took up most of the space and a pile of medical datapads that took up the rest of it. What was unusual about the desk was that just enough space had been cleared to allow a bottle of highgrade to perch precariously near the edge.

Ratchet picked it up and ran his thumb over the label in a way that was almost longing.

"If I didn't have to worry about several dozen idiots blowing themselves up at any given moment, I'd probably be halfway through this thing already." He shook his helm, a curious smile on his face. "Sometimes it sucks being the only fully trained medic in three sectors."

He put the bottle back in a drawer and closed it.

"Since we can't get plastered, I guess we'll just have to talk about it like big bots." He gave Prowl another smile, this one full of grim humor. "I'm too old to be throwing tantrums, anyway."

Prowl took one calming in-vent and went for broke. "I got a message from High Command."

He'd expected a wide range of reactions from Ratchet, but he hadn't expected the medic to bury his face in his servos and let out an unsteady chuckle.

"Primus." he swore, rubbing at his optics like all this was a nightmare he was only just waking up from. "You too, huh?"

"They didn't." There was no way Command would drag Ratchet into this. No way.

Ratchet just looked back up at him and wordlessly turned the monitor on. It was displaying the contents of Ratchet's inbox, specifically a missive with the seal of High Command perched authoritatively in the top corner. It was nigh identical to the one which had sent Prowl into such a tizzy.

Unicron's pistons. They had.

"Command," Ratchet announced, utterly solemn, "has gone insane."

"Do they think," he continued, hints of disgust and familiar anger creeping back into his voice, "that they can just make us- Like we were just-! Wasn't it enough that we went and threw ourselves into battle when they ordered it! And now they think, after tossing us aside when we weren't of any further use, that we're just going to come and roll over when they whistle? No. Not again. I've had enough of this elitist scrap. I'm not taking this lying down. I'm fighting this. If you have any sense, you'll do the same."

"I can't." Prowl said softly. Of course he'd thought about refusing. Of course he'd thought about running. He couldn't though. And that was the thought that had driven him to Ratchet in the middle of the dark shift.

"Of course you can." Ratchet snorted, unaware of Prowl's inner turmoil. "I do it all the time. You did it when you were younger. Pit, you still do it now. You've just learned to be subtle about it."

"This isn't about ignoring minor work orders or arguing about supplies, it's a Class 1 directive. If I don't comply- With my record- Ratchet, they could bring up the charges again."

Ratchet's gaze snapped to Prowl's, optics widening in understanding, and Prowl had to look away. Ratchet could fight this. Ratchet could win this, and Command would let him do so with barely any repercussions. He was the best damned medic Cybertron had left after the war. They knew it and he knew it, and there was no way High Command was going to do anything to jeopardize what little control they had over so valuable an asset.

Ratchet could get away with most anything he wanted.

But other members of the Maintenance Corps? Prowl? Command had them over a barrel. There would be consequences for disobedience in so important a matter.

"You were acquitted." Ratchet growled, but this close Prowl could make out subtle swirls of despair in his field. "You're innocent and even those glitchheads had to admit it."

"Yes. I'm innocent." Prowl agreed, visor still firmly fixed on the floor. "A lot of good that'll do me."

Ratchet didn't respond. He couldn't. They'd both been through the war. They'd seen the 'trials' given to suspected Decepticon sympathizers and prisoners of war. If High Command really wanted you found guilty, you'd be found guilty. It had taken a minor miracle - and the backing of a Prime - for Prowl to be let off the first time. If Command called for a retrial? 

"Prowl. Prowl, look at me." he coaxed, gentler than Prowl could remember hearing him. "I promise you, if you don't want to do this, I'll keep you safe from Command. Even if that means I'll have to smuggle you though space myself."

"In a box 'Spare Parts,' no doubt." Prowl's voice was still low, but not as lost as before.

"It's about all you're good for." Ratchet teased, offering a smile. "In the meantime, I suggest we play along with their demands. We can bail out when they get too ridiculous."

"We!?" Prowl startled, looking up from the floor. 

"Of course. Did you think I'd leave you for the scraplets? I'm Maintenance Corps, not the Elite Guard." Ratchet scoffed. "We take care of our own. Besides, Command will bully you all around like you're a bunch of newsparks who don't know their servos from their pedes if I'm not there to keep them in line."

The mental image of Ratchet telling off the whole of High Command was laughable, yet plausible, enough to pull a small smile out of Prowl. Ratchet smiled back and then placed a servo on Prowl's shoulder, expression becoming serious once more.

"Prowl, remember, no matter what Command would like you to think, they can't force you to bond with someone you don't want to. It's physically impossible. Your choice is your own. It always will be. If Command tries to tell you otherwise, they can go suck an exhaust port."

Prowl vented harshly in irritation. "It would be easier if I actually knew what that meant. Bonding? Interfacing? I don't even know what I'm being ordered to do."

Ratchet sank back into his chair, frowning, and folded his servos together in consideration. "You're right. It's not like Command to be so vague. Still, these are rather unique circumstances. I don't expect anybody outside the medical field knows much about it anymore, and what we do know is incredibly dry and technical. They'd have to parse it down into something much simpler before they'd be able to explain it in a way that everyone would understand. Could be they're still floundering around, trying to do exactly that. Of course, in the meantime, every gearhead with a mouth and two bits of information to rub together is spewing out nonsense like it's gospel."

Ratchet sighed. "I guess I'll have to put together a lecture on it before things get too out of hand."

While Prowl's faceplates remained perfectly impassive about Ratchet's announcement, not even vorns of rigorous cyberninja training could stop every segment of his armored plating from clamping down on his frame in an instinctual expression of utter fear.

Ratchet caught the motion and grinned wickedly. "What's the matter? Don't like my lectures, ey?"

During his time as a crewmember, Prowl had been subjected to Ratchet's 'lectures' a grand total of two times. The first, shortly after he'd joined, had been a hellacious experience wherein Ratchet had tried to make him competent enough at first aid to meet Ratchet’s own exacting standards. By the end of it, Ratchet had firmly established his dominance in the ship hierarchy and Prowl had learned, among other things, how to safely remove foreign objects from wounds, the proper method of moving or transporting an injured bot without exacerbating existing injuries or causing new ones, and about thirteen new swears.

That last one was no small feat. Prowl had spent a good portion of his life thus far in an active warzone. Soldiers tended to develop quite the vocabulary in the face of incoming ordnance.

The second time had been entirely Bumblebee's fault. The minibot had decided to stop attending the washracks and, in response, Ratchet had lectured them all on the various debilitating conditions that could befall a mech when they stopped maintaining their plating. 

There'd been pictures. 

Prowl didn't think the crew had ever scrubbed quite as hard as they did in the orns following that ordeal.

Prowl's silence elicited a real laugh from Ratchet. "Don't worry. I'll make the others attend as well. Best to have you all prepared. I would've said the others would be exempt from this madness, but I also would've said there was no slagging way Command would've chosen the two of us for something like this. We're clearly the worst choices amongst the lot of us. Who do they even think they’re going to pair with a rusty old medic and a- well, you."

He gestured at Prowl. Luckily, the ninja in question was too busy contemplating something else Ratchet had said to be concerned with whether that was an insult.

"Pair us? Will this assignment require a partner?"

"Oh dear Primus, I walked right into that one. Ah, yes. In a manner or speaking." he fumbled. "Bonding and interfacing - well, maybe not interfacing - are, at their core, based around relationships. Romantic relationships."

Prowl's systems stalled.

"Yeah. The, uh, actual mechanics of bonding and interfacing don't come into play, usually, until a firm, romantic relationship has been established between two, or sometimes more, bots." 

Maybe, if he rebooted, all of this would turn out to be a startup error. 

"So, as the first phase in their 'plan,' Command will match potential candidates, like us, with another potential candidate, or possibly candidates, that they have deemed to be 'compatible' based on medical records and the results of the survey."

"Survey?" Prowl managed.

"Didn't you get one? It was an attachment on the original message. Course, you were probably too concerned with the message itself to care much about that. Honestly, I only saw it 'cause it stared auto-prompting me for answers when I tried to delete the damned thing. Here, let me show you."

He jabbed at the screen and a new document opened, full of numbered questions and multiple choice answers and little boxes where you could write out longer explanations. It looked, essentially, like every standardized test Prowl had been required to take back when he was still new to life. 

Well, except that the sorts of things they were asking him about weren't about sentence structure or the geopolitical status of Cybertron and its neighboring systems.

Prowl made it three questions down before his faceplates began to heat in embarrassment. Ratchet kept scrolling, idly sliding through the screens while his optics scanned everything with a sort of clinical detachment that probably served him well as a medic.

"On second thought," Ratchet mused, still scrolling, "maybe we should have that drink now."

  



	3. Chapter 3

Prowl entered the mess feeling completely unapologetic about the shot of high grade sitting in his tank. As far as he was concerned, it had been a prerequisite for completing that- that- _survey_. Ratchet followed with all the swagger that three shots on an empty tank supplied.

The mess hall itself was a cluttered room dominated by an overly large and impressive table around which was scattered a truly odd assortment of chairs. The table had originally been intended for the upper echelons of High Command, but had been lost to a storeroom due to bureaucratic confusion and, shortly thereafter, forgotten. The crew had 'liberated' it for themselves during a resupply run, and Command remained none the wiser. Unfortunately, they had had no luck procuring seating to match. About half the chairs were standard issue folding ones. The rest had been lost to various misfortunes and replaced by anything that looked like it would comfortably hold their weight.

Optimus was already seated at one end of the table with a stack of datapads. The downside of being a Prime was that Optimus was responsible for the entirety of Maintenance Corps, both spacefaring and planetbound, not just his own crew. This duty manifested itself as an endless stream of datapads that Optimus was forever toiling to get through.

And since Optimus had received his position as an alternative to being drummed out of the Elite Guard, there weren't really any perks either.

Bulkhead was present as well, having just come off his shift. He looked about as tired as Optimus. The large mech puttered about carefully, wedged in between the table and the far wall where the dispensers, cabinets, and other assorted clutter were kept. Task complete, he maneuvered himself over to a section devoid of seats, set down his tray, and manipulated his kibble into a sort of chair before sitting down to refuel. 

"Heya, Prowl! Heya, Ratchet!" he waved, sounding much more awake than he looked. The cube gripped in his three digit servos sloshed its contents around before its owner noticed and stopped. At the sound of Bulkhead's voice, or perhaps at the drops of energon which had come precariously close to his datapads, Optimus looked up and offered a welcome of his own. Prowl nodded, Ratchet grunted, and the two went to get fuel of their own.

Prowl had heard it said that grandmasters of Circuit Su could subsist for vorns at a time on nothing more than the energy of the universe. Prowl wasn't a master, wouldn't be close to that level even if he had completed his training, but he couldn't help but wish he knew that particular technique. Anything, even mystical space nectar, had to be better than what lurked in the back of the cabinets while they waited for Command to send them fresh supplies. They weren't exactly at the top of Command's list for resupply, either. Everyone knew that positions on asteroid bases or in spacebridge repair were for those on Command's slag list.

As a result, their cabinets currently contained stacks of stale metal supplement crackers, forlorn containers a meal or two away from the recycling bin, and lots and lots of empty space. The dispensers, at least, were full, but the energon had started to go watery and the oil was well on its way to sludge. Everything still edible had all the flavor of your average rock.

Less, if you believed Bumblebee, who had once actually licked one for comparison.

Ratchet went for the oil, as per usual. He argued that the taste of old oil would put plating on one's chassis. The others were secretly of the opinion that it was more likely to strip paint off.

Prowl rummaged through the cabinets, not ready to give up on finding a tin of his favorite powdered mineral blend. Eventually, he found one that hadn't been scraped clean and, as an afterthought, retrieved a metal supplement cracker as well. It was gray, bland, and individually wrapped in clear packaging that crinkled when you touched it. He tossed it on the counter and began gently tapping the sides of his tin, trying to dislodge the faint layer of powder that clung to the sides to get enough for one last serving. He thought longingly of the orns when he'd refueled on his special blend steeped in light, hot oil. If it were a special occasion, there'd be an energon pastry as well, just waiting to be dunked in his cube or savored, bite by bite, until there was nothing left but sticky glaze on his digits and the slow satisfaction that came after a good meal.

Back in reality, Prowl dumped the last of his blend into his cube and hoped it would be enough to add some flavor and took his seat. It was a rickety, stool-like thing that Bumblebee had found somewhere and persuaded Prowl to sit on, hoping it would break under his weight and send him sprawling to the floor. Much to his disappointment, Prowl actually possessed the balance and coordination necessary to sit in the thing, and had claimed it as his own. Across the table, Bulkhead was crumbling a cracker into a mixture of energon and oil. He knocked back the resulting slurry in one go, belched, and then got up for seconds. Apparently, the technique allowed a mech to ignore both the taste and consistency of his fuel.

Prowl watched him for a moment, then looked back at his own cube, trying not to feel resentful. There were restaurants opening up back on Cybertron, and the crew was stuck with rations that tasted like they were left over from the war. He gave the metal supplement a sidelong glance. Some might actually have been left over from the war. It was no wonder Bulkhead downed his fuel as quickly as he could.

He took a sip and let the resulting blandness slide down his intake. It could be worse. During the war, resupply had been spotty at best, and rations had run low like everything else. At least now he could refuel regularly. He nibbled at his cracker without any real enthusiasm.

At the head of the table, Optimus reached for his cube and wound up aimlessly grasping at thin air until he looked up from his all-consuming datapads and realized that it was actually on his other side. Bulkhead sat back down and began mixing again, actually looking like he was enjoying his fuel. Next to Prowl, Ratchet tipped his cube back, grunted, and finally upended the thing, waiting for the last bit of oil to ooze out.

Prowl hid a small smile in his cube. The food was still bad, but the company was definitely a lot better.

After Prowl crunched his way through half his cracker, after Bulkhead had finished his thirds, after Optimus had conquered a stack of datapads, and after Ratchet had been reduced to scraping oil out of his cube with his digits, Bumblebee walked in.

"Well, look who decided to show up." Ratchet snarked. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Ratchet." Optimus warned, more exasperated than anything else. "Bee, grab some fuel and take a seat so we can get started."

"Urgh." The yellow bot moaned as he made his way over to the cabinets, devoid of the speed he was known for. "Whoever decided we need to be online this early needs to be fed to the Decepticons. It's just not right."

"Come on, Bee, it's not so bad." Bulkhead soothed. Bumblebee, perched on the tips of his pedes to reach the high shelves, just snorted.

"You don't get to talk. You used to work on an energon farm. This is nothing for you."

Nevertheless, Bumblebee collected a cube and plopped down on a sagging crate next to Bulkhead. Optimus shuffled through his pads as their final crewmember started in on his meal.

"Now that we're all here, let's get started. First thing's first. We've got new orders from Command. We're still en route to Spacebridge 4-1-551, but we'll be making a slight detour."

Bumblebee groaned and dropped his helm on the table.

"It's nothing bad." Optimus protested. "There've been reports of a debris cloud in the area. We're to do a bit of scouting and see if we can find anything. If we do, Ratchet, Prowl, you'll be on salvage and catalogue duty. As always, Command wants anything useable sent back ASAP, and I figure we can send it off as soon as you’re done since we'll be at a spacebridge anyway. No need to pack anything up and put it in storage."

Optimus shuffled his pads in the awkward, slightly guilty way he did when he felt like he was going against Command.

"I know protocol is to send all materials back to Command, but we've been having some problems with engine three again and I'm sure I don't have to mention the lights on E deck."

"What lights?" Bulkhead mumbled, rubbing a dent in his helm.

"If you find anything that might help, consider yourselves ordered to keep it. Unofficially of course."

The crew nodded, like this was a solemn development and they hadn’t been having first go at whatever they found since the orn they'd been sent out here. Best to leave Optimus his formalities.

"Also, remember that Red Alert-"

"Which Red Alert?" Bumblebee interjected. "Crazy Red Alert, normal Red Alert, or femme Red Alert?"

"Bumblebee." Optimus scolded. "Red Alert's not crazy. He's a highly skilled security specialist who unfortunately suffers from-"

"Crazy Red Alert it is." Bumblebee nodded.

He attempted to prop his pedes up on the table to antagonize Ratchet, and earned himself a smack. Ratchet, in what was either an attempt to protect the table or an attempt to teach the two youngest table manners, had threatened death on whosoever scuffed, dented, or otherwise blemished its finish.

To be fair, it was a really nice table. Swanky, even. 

"Red Alert," Optimus continued, as if nothing had happened, "has asked us to let him know if we find a significant amount of wire or anything that could be used as temporary hull plating, specifically that which has been rated for light to medium combat. He won't tell me what he needs the plating for, but assures me that it is very important and his ship’s overall structural integrity has not been compromised. However, they’re worried about a reoccurrence of the electrical issues and although Inferno got that fire under control-"

"I'll bet he's got more than that under control." Bumblebee waggled his optical ridges shamelessly.

Ratchet smacked him again.

"Inferno got that fire under control, but they're hoping for a permanent fix before more problems present themselves. None of us want to have to go rescue them."

It was more like none of them wanted to be stuck on the same ship as Red Alert. The mech wasn't as bad as they made him out to be, and he'd shown marked improvement in the last several vorns - especially after settling into a relationship with Inferno - but he was still best dealt with in small doses.

"Bee, Bulkhead, we're looking at standard maintenance on the spacebridge, but we all know how that goes. I've pulled the specs to give us some idea what we're dealing with, but it's best to be prepared for anything. Logs say it been almost two vorns since anyone's given the bridge more than a dust off. We could be looking at a complete systems overhaul, for all I know."

Bulkhead actually looked delighted at the prospect.

"After that, we might be headed to the next sector over. A small meteorite collided with a communications relay. Hound's crew's already on it, but I'm sure they wouldn't say no to some extra help."

Optimus sat up straighter, looking pleased with himself.

"In other news, I'm pleased to report that my ongoing negotiations with Command are going well."

"Ha! Finally got them to recognize you're a Prime instead of a glorified maintenance drone, eh?" Ratchet grinned.

"It seems that way." Optimus admitted, a hint of pride in his voice and chassis puffed out ever so slightly. Bumblebee catcalled. Prowl bounced his supplement wrapper off the yellow bot's helm, to Ratchet's sniggered approval.

"High Command is decommissioning several ships from the first fleet and, rather than melting them down, they've agreed to donate them to the Maintenance Corps. This means new -well, newer- ships for some of our crews."

"Sweet!" Bumblebee pumped his fists victoriously. "Does this mean we're finally getting off this useless tub?"

"This ship is not useless!" Ratchet snarled.

By now, the crew had realized that Ratchet was oddly attached to their ship, even more so than he was to the table or his medbay, and avoided making derogatory comments. At least within audio range. Prowl figured he must have served aboard the ship during the war. He wouldn't be the first mech to get attached to the place where he'd been posted.

"Ratchet! Calm down. I'm allocating new vessels based on how much of a need there is for them. As much as Bumblebee might want to protest, we're far enough down that list that we're not getting a replacement anytime soon."

"Aww. No fair." Bumblebee pouted. "I bet Huffer's getting a new ship. You're giving Huffer a new ship just to shut him up, aren’t you!?"

"Yes, Bumblebee, Huffer's getting a new ship. Not because he complains, which he does... frequently... but because he actually needs one. His crew spent four orns last quartex drifting aimlessly through space because they'd suffered a complete systems failure. Again. And this time they couldn't even switch to manual. Even on their best orns, they're down one engine and their portside hull is held together with heavy welding and hope. They're getting a new ship." Optimus' voice left no room for argument.

Bumblebee huffed, but said no more.

"If that's settled, I've also been talking with Iacon's medical academy. We're currently averaging one fully trained medic per five crews, which is, frankly, unacceptable. I know most medics don't want to be stuck out here when they could be making a name for themselves planetside, but I thought we could take on students. They need real world experience, and we need bots that know more than basic first aid. Ratchet, I was hoping you could-" Ratchet held up his servo.

"Say no more. If it means I'm not forever rocketing off Primus knows where to make house calls, I'm in. Just tell me what you need."

"Thank you." Optimus handed a datapad to Prowl, who handed it to Ratchet in turn. "Just take a look at that when you get the time."

Optimus turned to address the rest of the table. "I think that's everything. Does anyone have anything to add before we get going?"

Prowl cleared his intakes awkwardly. "I- I received a message from High Command last orn."

He might as well have announced he was going to explode from the reaction this statement garnered him.

"Prowl?" Optimus' voice was thick with concern. "Is everything ok? Do you need me to talk with Command?"

"No!" Bumblebee cried, his optics glinting with anger. "They can't do this! Not again! I'm done with this slag! Why can't they just leave you alone!?"

"Yeah!" Bulkhead broke in. "If they try anything I'll- I'll-"

He turned his servos into wrecking balls, to accentuate his point, and Prowl made frantic motions for him to transform them back before he destroyed the table and Ratchet murdered them all.

"It's nothing like that. In fact, Ratchet received one as well."

The others looked at Ratchet for conformation. He nodded and they relaxed marginally.

"What did they want?"

"It's about- It- They-" Prowl floundered before blurting out. "Ratchet and I have been selected to repopulate Cybertron."

Three sets of optics blinked in unison.

"What."

Prowl looked down at his servos, internal temperature rising slightly. Ratchet took this as his cue to step in.

"Come on, it's not rocket science. The two of us have been dragged into the Magnus' latest scheme. Before you ask, no, I don't know what they're trying to pull, but Prowl and I will be going along with it for the time being. However, I think you should all be prepared in case they decide to drag the rest of you into this mess. I'll be briefing you on interfacing as soon as we get some down time. I've got a lecture in the works."

Optimus, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee blanched.

"Oh, grow some struts. It won't be that bad."

Optimus cleared his intakes and, thankfully, changed the subject.

"Well, I can see you have that under control. Keep us posted. And if you need anything, either of you," he looked at Prowl and Ratchet in turn. "Let me know. I might not have much say with High Command, but I won't let them order you around like drones. You're Maintenance Corps. You're my troops. I won't let you go without a fight."

Prowl often found Optimus' strange devotion to those under his command to be a little suffocating, but, in this moment, he found his leader's fervor strangely comforting. Ratchet rolled his optics, trying to brush it off, but Prowl could see he was touched as well. Bulkhead and Bumblebee nodded, less eloquent than their leader, but no less devoted.

That was Maintenance Corps for you. You didn't mess with one of them without others making you bleed for the privilege.

"Alright. Dismissed."

The five of them crowded out into the corridor to begin work for the orn or, in Bulkhead's case, to grab some rest before work began. If the three youngest watched the veterans with protective gazes, determination plain on their faceplates, no one said anything.

  



	4. Chapter 4

You never really understood how vast space was until you were right out in the middle of it. Not as in looking out a spaceship window, but floating through the ether with a great big nothing surrounding you in all directions. Prowl floated out into the vast unknown, tether cable unwinding slowly behind him, and took a moment to appreciate how processor bogglingly huge space was. But only a moment. Then he was once more intent on the mass of debris he was gliding closer and closer towards.

Prowl was almost always the one sent to scout out possible salvage jobs. His jump jets gave him an advantage when navigating zero gravity environments. He didn't have to hope the momentum from his original jump from the ship would carry him in the right direction, he was capable of correcting his own trajectory. And, on the off chance the tether broke, he could navigate back himself without needing a rescue.

Ratchet carefully tracked his journey from the ship, pedes magnetized to the hull, with one servo on the tether controls and the other with electromagnet at the ready. Until Prowl verified the debris was safe to salvage, Ratchet's only job was to haul his aft back if things went wrong. Or weld his aft back together if things went really wrong. Optimus was directing from the bridge, where he could use the ship's sensors to monitor for any signs of distress. Bulkhead and Bumblebee were busy prepping the hold for whatever might be hauled in.

"Easy now." Ratchet called.

Prowl didn't dignify that with a response. It wasn't like he hadn't done this before. He eased up on his jets and slowed his approach so he hovered just short of the debris. This particular specimen was a large hunk of _something_ just big enough to attract odds and ends to orbit around it in an obscuring veil. 

"Optimus, what are my readings?"

"Preliminary scans came up clean. You should be good to go. What are we looking at?"

"Outer edges look like standard space trash, but there's a low rock content, so this thing hasn't been out here all that long. I guess less than a quartex. Debris probably broke off from the center mass. Hard to tell through the cloud, but I think it's a plating segment. Probably off someone's hull. One of ours?"

"Not that I know. You think someone would've reported it if something that size dropped off their ship."

"Depends on the crew." Ratchet cut in. "Landmine's lost an engine once, you remember that? Just broke clear off the ship one orn and they didn't bother reporting it until it nearly collided with another crew a sector away."

"True, but they'd been mining asteroids and thought it was just part of their cargo that'd gotten untethered. Prowl, see if you can find any identifiers. I imagine whoever lost this wants it back."

"Understood." Prowl began a slow approach. A single pulse, courtesy of the magnets in his servos, cleared his path of smaller rubble. A few larger pieces were easily swatted away.

"Debris' mostly homogenous in color and composition,” Prowl reported, “It definitely came from the same source. Not a lot of tarnishing present in the metal. You might want to knock a cycle off my estimate." He drifted farther in. "Center mass is- Primus. It's not just outer plating. I've got internals here. Whoever it was didn't just lose a lose segment, they suffered a complete hull breach."

Prowl studied the section of ship worriedly. The only other times he'd seen something like this were on jobs salvaging wrecks from the war, ships that had been destroyed or abandoned and left adrift until the war had ended and Command had had the time and workforce to go back for them. Had it come from a shipwreck or battlefield? But they were too far away from any reported wrecks, even if this debris cloud had drifted from the original site. And the fragments surrounding it were too new.

"That explains the debris cloud." Optimus mused, unaware of Prowl's concerns. “Did it come from one of ours?”

"I don’t know. The outer hull seems too thick be a Maintenance craft. Might even be thick enough to be battle class."

"You sure?"

"I've done external repairs on our ship often enough. Who out here besides us is using a decommissioned battlecruiser?"

"Not sure.” Prowl could almost picture the furrow in Optimus’ brow as he searched his memory for an answer. “There's a few, but most of us are in light to heavy freighters. There are also some frigates and corvettes who may have jury rigged parts of their structure since the war. I'll try hailing them when the salvage is done. It could also have come from a patrol ship, they sometimes come out this far. Though, they’re usually a lot less cavalier about losing parts of their ship than we are. They would’ve come back for it. Or sent us a work order to get it back for them."

"I don't see any identifying marks on the outer hull. Maintenance or otherwise." Prowl reported and then maneuvered around so that he could take a look at the other side. "Inside's fairly compromised.” 

In comparison to the smooth stretch of plating he had just been examining, this side bore little resemblance to the ship interior it had once been. It took more than a few moments to puzzle out what the twisted, broken off bits of metal had once been. Luckily, the further in from the edges he went, the easier it was to see what was what.

“Wait. I've got what might've been maintenance hatches. Let me get a closer look."

He eased closer, keeping a slow and steady approach to ensure he didn’t miss anything. His movement agitated the debris around him sending the crumpled remains of a junction box spiraling past. He tracked its spin just long enough to catch a glimpse of the icon imbedded on its front.

Prowl had fired off his jump jets and was rocketing back through the debris cloud, uncaring of the metal pelting off his plating, before his processor had even caught up with what he'd seen. 

"Abort! Ratchet, get me out of here!"

To his credit, Ratchet had begun retracting the tether and was reaching for Prowl with his electromagnets before he even thought to ask what was wrong.

"What is it!?" he called, catching Prowl with his electromagnets and giving him an even greater burst of speed as he hurtled towards the ship.

"Decepticon symbol! It's a trap! Brace for impact!"

Prowl hit the ship hard, not bothering to slow down, and tucked himself into as small a profile as he could manage behind one of the ship's protruding structures, pedes and servos magnetizing to help him better cling to the hull. Ratchet threw himself down next to Prowl. The two of them waited there, both knowing they were exposed but also aware they wouldn't be able to make it to better cover.

It was an old Decepticon trick. They'd take wreckage, or even whole ships when they could manage, and rig them with explosives. When an Autobot rescue ship or salvage crew came by to see what could be done, the trap would be sprung. Since their exile into space, the Decepticons had even started using rocks. They'd affix mines to what would otherwise be an unassuming piece of space junk and set it adrift in Autobot space, waiting for the orn a ship got close enough to meet their doom.

Breems went by. Prowl gritted his denta and forced himself to stay down. Just because the explosion didn't occur right way didn't mean there was no danger. Some Cons liked using time delays. You'd think you were safe, that it'd been a dud, and no sooner did you stand up to tell everyone that the coast was clear then the bomb would go off, spraying everyone fool enough to leave cover with corrosive needles. You'd spend your last klicks feeling your insides decay. 

"Ratchet- Prowl- I- I'm sorry." Optimus stuttered. Prowl was struck by how young the Prime sounded. It was easy to forget their leader hadn't been born until after the war. "Preliminary scans came back clean. It should have been safe. I-"

"Don't worry about it, Prime." Ratchet interjected. "Prowl and I've been through worse scrapes than this. We'll be fine."

More time passed and, just when Prowl's joints were starting to cramp, Bumblebee came over the comms.

"So, are they dead?"

"No, scrap-for-processor, we're not." Ratchet snarled.

"Well, is something going to explode or not? The suspense is killing me!"

"Bumblebee has a point." Optimus spoke up. "It's been ten breems. Delay charges don't usually take this long, I think it might be a dud. I'm going to open up an outer hatch. See if you can get inside. Stay low. No sudden movements."

The two began a slow crawl across the hull, neither slowing nor relaxing until the hatch closed behind them placing a servo's width of reinforced plating between them and any possible explosion.

"We're in." Prowl reported. "What now?"

"We mark it and move on.” Ratchet growled. “We're not equipped to deal with this situation."

"Much as I'd like to do that, Ratchet, I don't think we have the option.” Optimus argued. “It's a drifter, I can't see that it's settled into any stable orbit. We leave and we run the risk of having it float off to who knows where. Just because we didn't trigger anything doesn't mean there isn't anything to be triggered."

"Smelt it, I hate it when you're right.” Ratchet sighed. “Alright then, fearless leader, what's the plan?"

"Prowl, would you be willing to go back out there?"

"What do you need me to do?"

"I'm sorry, but I need you to look for traps. You're the only one of us really built for stealth and the least likely to set something off. I'll be your backup. My armor's got the highest combat rating out of all of us. We’ll bring out the blast armor, just to be safe. Ratchet, prep med bay. Bumblebee, take the comms. Bulkhead, you're on standby in the hold. If something goes wrong, haul us in. Bumblebee, be prepared to send out emergency signals."

"Bossbot, you're crazy." Bumblebee said. "You want me to warm up the engines too?"

"It'd be best if we were ready to bail. Anyone have any objections?"

Bulkhead's 'no' sounded uncertain, and Ratchet took the opportunity to comment on everyone's sanity as he headed towards med bay. Prowl just began to in-vent and ex-vent slowly, preparing himself for the task ahead.

  


* * *

  


Optimus was tugging at his tether, stress testing it for the third time. He didn't need to. Ratchet had already run through all the necessary safety checks. It was nerves. More than likely, Optimus was stalling. Prowl didn't say anything. He was in no more hurry than Optimus, even if it meant more time stuck in blast armor. 

Blast armor was an exosuit made for those who worked in smelting pits and blast furnaces and had been retrofitted during the war for work in disarming explosives. Maintenance crews were given a suit or two to help with more hazardous jobs, but most crews didn't bother with them. The only situation where you'd really want blast armor was if you were working on a spacebridge that was going critical. It would protect a mech from the dangerous levels of warp energy present in such a situation.

Of course, if you failed to contain the situation and the spacebridge blew, blast armor did nothing to stop a Bot from being blown up, or turned inside out, or sucked into a black hole, or warped anywhere - Literally anywhere. The heart of a star. The inside of a wall. The hold of a slave ship. A candy store. Your crush's berth. Anywhere. - which was why most crews developed their own three step response to spacebridges which had passed certain safety parameters. Step one was to pack up their things and clear out. Step two was to retreat to a minimum safe distance. Step three was to keep going.

So what if Command was looking at a complete loss? What were they going to do about it? Yell at them? Reassign them to a dead end job? Make them do menial work?

Been there.

Done that.

Prowl rolled his shoulders, feeling the ill-fitting suit move with him. It was supposed to conform to the frame of the one wearing it, but clearly Command had sprung for the cheap models. Just the same, it should at least keep him from being slagged badly enough that Ratchet couldn't reassemble him.

Hopefully.

"You ready?" Optimus asked, offering Prowl a close range scanner and a small case of precision tools.

Prowl nodded, took the toolkit, and launched himself towards the debris. He took a much slower approach, carefully maneuvering through the gap he'd left behind and keeping one optic on the scanner at all times. Hyper-aware as he was, he began to notice things he'd overlooked before. The hull plating was scorched and pockmarked and the edges, instead of being the clean cuts of dummy debris, were twisted and warped as though they'd been blasted off. Perhaps it'd been a firefight. But why had it been abandoned rather than welded back on? Decepticons were even more hard up than Maintenance Corps when it came to getting new material. Furthermore, the internals hadn't been stripped. Prowl could still see wires and tubing emerging from it, not to mention perfectly salvageable control panels. It made absolutely no sense.

Prowl maneuvered carefully along the inside wall and froze.

"Prime." he called.

"What? Have you found the bomb?" Optimus queried, still navigating his large frame through the path Prowl had made in the debris.

"No. No bomb.” Prowl said faintly. “In fact, I don't think this is a trap at all."

"What makes you say that? What did you find?"

"There’s an arm back here.”

And so there was. Still clinging desperately to the hull was an arm – severed somewhere around the elbow - painted a shade of Decepticon purple that was still recognizable even under the gray sheen of deactivation.

  



	5. Chapter 5

Despite the events which had transpired less than a joor ago, the crew had continued on with their work much the same as they would have with any other salvage job. They'd gathered up the debris cloud, carefully so as not to leave any pieces behind, and had placed it in half a dozen boxes to be sorted later. Next, the hull segment had been hauled into the main hold and propped up against the wall until it could be broken down or properly secured. The two youngest members had stared uneasily as Ratchet pried the arm from its death-grip on the wreckage and then hurried away to perform an autopsy. Optimus had stayed long enough to give some soothing words to Bulkhead and Bumblebee and to help Prowl put away the blast armor before he too had left, this time to file an official report on the incident.

The three remaining crewmembers had given the hull segment a long look before moving, by unspoken agreement, as far away from it as possible to begin the first part of the salvage process. Much as some Bots might like to throw their findings pell-mell into boxes and ship it back to Command as-is, salvage needed to be sorted and catalogued before anything further could be done with it. It could be a time consuming process, yes, but Maintenance crews often spent orns in transit to one job or another, providing ample time to get such work done. Any work they could get done in the lulls between jobs meant resources that could immediately be melted down or otherwise recycled upon arrival. This, in turn, meant resources that could immediately be allocated to reconstruction.

Crews mainly got through the monotony by turning it into a social event. About the only better time to sit around and talk with your fellow crewmembers was mealtimes. Plus, it was easy to make up games when you had a pile scrap to play with. The crew's current favorite was a race to see who could sort through a pile of scrap first. Optimus usually won when they were hauling larger larger debris chunks. With smaller debris, like the cloud they'd just collected, it was a toss-up between Prowl and Ratchet. Prowl may have trained to be a cyberninja, but even his digits could be outmatched by Ratchet's medical precision.

Bumblebee, of course, would protest loudly that this wasn't really a race and if anyone wanted to take a lap around the ship, he'd show them who the fastest Bot really was. His crewmembers, of course, would then pelt him good-naturedly with smaller bits from their own piles, missing half the time. Bumblebee would shriek theatrically and bolt off into the ship, proclaiming that none of them would ever catch him alive. The rest of the crew would roll their optics and team up to finish Bumblebee's abandoned pile, grinning all the while.

It'd taken Prowl a while to get used to the closeness that Maintenance crews invariably developed. In fact, he'd actively resisted it at first. It hadn't helped that the first thing that Prowl had ever salvaged with the crew had been his own ship. After said crew had accidentally blow it to pieces.

It had been... awkward.

Much like the time after the incident with Prowl’s ship, none of the Bots left in the main hold felt much like talking, or knew how to broach the subject they all wanted to talk about. Prowl, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee sat on the floor sifting through debris, sending sidelong glances at each other and at the hull segment against the wall, and occasionally flicking a piece of rock into a pile off to the side that they'd later jettison out into space.

And there they sat.

And sorted.

In silence.

Unsurprisingly, it was Bumblebee who broke first, shucking a twisted piece of metal into the appropriate container with more force than was necessary.

"Ok, is anybody gonna say anything? I mean, what happened?" he asked, almost desperately. "What the frag happened out there?"

"Bee..." Bulkhead began. 

"I'm just saying what we're all thinking! Something happened out there and I want to know what! Come on, Prowl. I know you're trying to be a responsible adult and everything, but you and Ratchet and Optimus can't hide this from us. Not if there's Cons involved!"

Prowl put down the cog he'd been examining.

"I don't know, Bumblebee." he said calmly. "Ratchet's examining the arm as we speak. I'm sure he and Optimus will let us know-"

"Let you know, you mean. You can't protect us forever. I'm a big bot! I can handle it!"

Prowl looked from Bumblebee to Bulkhead, who was quiet but whose optics were just as determined as his friend’s.

"I don't know what happened." he vented. "But what we found is similar to what you'd find after battles during the Great War. I know you've helped strip old derelicts before. What we found today wasn't much different from what you've already seen."

"So, this was just left over from the war?" Bee asked. "Something no one bothered to clean up?"

"No." Prowl shook his head in frustration at the pile before them. "All of this- It's too _new_. There's no sign of even the limited corrosion that occurs in a vacuum. Some of these parts weren't present in Decepticon vessels until after they'd started their retreat into space. The hull segment has _coolant_ left in the tubes. And it hasn't even begun to crystallize. None of the evidence matches up with any battle or skirmish I've ever heard of."

"Maybe the Cons are infighting." Bulkhead suggested. "I wouldn't put it past them."

Prowl shook his helm again. "Megatron was many things, but a poor commander wasn't one of them. He'd never let his troops be so out of control. Well... except Starscream." And even then, Starscream had only been allowed such leniency because the Decepticons had relied on air superiority and Starscream, despite all his other failings, was the best damned flyer the Decepticons had had.

"Well then, what happened? You think we'd’ve heard something if it was one of ours that'd gotten into a tussle with the Cons." Bulkhead pondered.

"Man." Bumblebee threw up his arms. "I can't deal with this mystery Decepticon business. Not on top of Magnus' kooky interfacing nonsense."

Prowl twitched.

"Oh, right. Changing the subject."

"You ok, Prowl?" Bulkhead asked.

"I'm fine." he gave a wry smile. "As fine as I can be, at least."

Bulkhead and Bumblebee shared a look. Prowl pressed his lips together and kept silent.

"So. What are we going to do about this?" Bulkhead asked, waving at the debris filling the storage bay and the hull segment still propped innocuously against the wall.

"I don't know. Keep our optics open. Spread the word. For now, I don't know what else we can do. This is too isolated an incident for anyone in Command to send us help."

"Longarm would help." Bulkhead interjected.

Bumblebee lit up. "Yeah! Longarm would totally help us!"

Most everyone in Maintenance Corps liked Longarm Prime, and Bumblebee was no exception. Longarm was one of the few members of High Command who seemed to care about them even when it wasn't convenient for him to do so. The usually mild mannered Prime could be quite outspoken when it came to the conditions Maintenance faced. Command had tried to hush him up, saying resources were better allocated elsewhere, but Longarm wasn't having any of it. What would become of Communications if Maintenance were allowed to fall by the wayside? 

Longarm was a constant advocate for getting more supplies to the teams on the outskirts of Autobot space. Once he'd even come out to do repairs on a major communications hub himself when Command had dragged its pedes in getting the proper resources to Maintenance. He'd won over a lot of Bots that day. Here, at least, was a member of Command who wasn't afraid to get his servos dirty.

At every party they went to, Bumblebee would invariably tell anyone who'd listen that he'd fought alongside Longarm Prime back when they'd both been grunts in basic training. Bulkhead could be coaxed into sharing stories as well, but his weren't as full of hero worship.

Prowl wasn't sure that this wasn't all some elaborate scheme to help Longarm's political career, but it was nice to believe that someone as important as Longarm Prime was so invested in their well-being.

"Perhaps Optimus would be willing to contact him." Prowl conceded.

"Yeah!" Bumblebee's grin threatened to split his faceplates. "One Prime to another. And then Command will be forced to get off their afts and send us some help. Right, Bulk?"

"Right." Bulkhead nodded like everything was already settled.

"Maybe we’ll get some battle cruisers. That’d make me feel better. I mean, I know Rodimus and his troops do their best, but they're no Elite Guard, am I right?"

"I dunno, Bee." Bulkhead replied, carefully selecting a screw with his oversized servos. "I think he does a pretty good job."

"He doesn't lack enthusiasm." Prowl said diplomatically.

Rodimus Prime was just as much an oddity as Longarm, thought for entirely different reasons. A member of a well off family, he'd graduated from the Elite Guard with some of the highest scores on record. Upon receiving the rank of Prime, he'd been heralded by some as the 'Chosen One,' the one destined to succeed Ultra Magnus as ruler of Cybertron. And yet, after being offered a selection of comfy positions back on Cybertron, he'd rejected all of them in favor of joining Border Patrol.

Border Patrol! The one job that could possibly be worse than serving in the Maintenance Corps!

At least in Maintenance there was the chance you could be stationed on Cybertron. Border Patrol all but guaranteed you'd be stuck on a base out in space somewhere guarding Cybertron's holdings. And, should someone decide to invade, - like, say, the Decepticons - you'd be the first line of defense.

And Rodimus had chosen his position willingly! He wasn't an embarrassment that Command was trying to forget. He hadn't angered anyone important. And, as far as anyone knew, he wasn't out here to escape some unpleasantness planetside.

He just genuinely wanted to be out here.

Maintenance and Border Patrol had originally given him a quartex before he went running back to Cybertron. Rodimus had been out here for vorns now and remained just as enthusiastic about his job and as dedicated to Ultra Magnus as his first orn.

Everyone had eventually decided that Rodimus was his own special brand of crazy and belonged out here just as much as anyone else.

Besides, even Prowl was willing to admit that the mech threw some damned good parties.

"He is a better Prime than Sentinel." Prowl acknowledged.

Bulkhead snorted. "Anyone could be a better Prime than Sentinel."

"Yeah!" Bumblebee crowed. "He makes our stick in the sludge look like Magnus material."

"Thank you, Bumblebee," Optimus deadpanned, "For that rousing vote of confidence."

Bumblebee and Bulkhead started, sending bits of metal scattering across the room. Prowl, who was not nearly as easy to sneak up on as the younger bots, continued with his work and nodded as Optimus approached.

"Come on, Optimus, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're a great leader, even if you are a stick in the sludge."

Bumblebee's voice was teasing and Optimus shook his helm. Prowl could see a hint of a smile on his face. He sat down, large frame squeezed between Prowl and Bulkhead, and began to sort as well.

"Ratchet's still working on the autopsy." he began, picking up a rock and tossing it into the pile of its brethren. "I've sent off a preliminary report about the wreckage and the condition in which we found it, but we'll have to send a more detailed one with the arm itself. He should be ready with his findings by the time we reach the spacebridge."

"Yeah," Bumblebee wheedled, "but was it Cons or wasn't it?"

"It was only an arm, Bee," Optimus said sternly, "and there weren't any identifying markings. Could have been a neutral for all we know."

"Like there are a lot of those left." Prowl mumbled.

"But it was attached to a Con ship." Bumblebee persisted. "It has to be a Con!"

"Bee-"

"We'd know if it were one of ours! Our comms suck, but they don't suck that bad. Only a Con-"

"Or maybe." Optimus cut him off. "The wreckage really was wired to blow and some unlucky neutral salvage crew found it before we did. Don't go looking for trouble where there is none."

Optimus may have been a fan of documentaries on the war years, but he was by no means eager for combat. He'd been commanding veterans for decavorns. Any visions of glory had long since been extinguished. He knew what he would be up against if the Decepticons came back.

"And don't go spreading rumors, either." Optimus commanded. "We don't know what this is yet. We'll alert the proper authorities and let them handle it. Besides, half the Maintenance Corps has seen battle. Border Patrol's the same. We aren't exactly pushovers. The Decepticons try something, we'll hold our own."

"Yeah, Bee." Bulkhead soothed. "Can you imagine if the Cons tried to attack Warpath? Or Kup?

That got a smile out of Bumblebee, though he still looked dubious. "I guess you're right."

"Don't worry about it. For now, just focus on getting this sorted. We're still scheduled to meet up with Hound after our drop off, and I don't want to keep him waiting."

  


* * *

  


There were three things that Prowl knew of that could make Bulkhead practically vibrate with excitement. The first was construction. Not surprising, given Bulkhead's frame type. Bots often found enjoyment in the things they had literally been tailor made to do. The second was art. This raised optic ridges from mechs looking at Bulkhead and his large, lumbering frame. Anyone who had seen Bulkhead demolish a structure with those wrecking balls of his found it quite the leap to believe that those same servos could even hold an artist's tools, much less use them. Prowl had seen the beautiful things Bulkhead was capable of creating. It hadn't come easy to him, not the way construction had, but he loved what he did and it showed. Prowl could respect that kind of dedication to a craft.

Bulkhead's third passion was spacebridges. Bulkhead really, really liked spacebridges. He liked their design. He liked their construction. He liked the complex, scientific theory behind their function. He liked repairing them. He liked maintaining them. He liked dented, run down spacebridges and ones that were pristine. He liked functioning spacebridges and those that had been reduced to twisted scrap by the war. There was nothing about spacebridges Bulkhead didn't like or didn't find fascinating in some way.

Prowl found Bulkhead's enthusiasm alien in its intensity. Mostly because it was directed at spacebridges, of all things. They were old technology, even by Cybertronian standards. Scientists had long since figured out the ins and outs of spacebridges and moved on to newer, shiner projects. Most mechs didn't even think of spacebridges as anything beyond a form of transportation. They got you quickly from point A to point B. The same could be said about spaceships or a city’s tram system. Yes, he supposed they were interesting in a historical context. They had won the Autobots the war, after all. But beyond that?

For Prowl they were just something he sent shipments through and occasionally had to help fix.

Still, to each their own. If spacebridges made Bulkhead happy, Prowl wasn't going to begrudge him that. Besides, the spacebridge would keep Bulkhead occupied for the next couple of breems, which was what Prowl needed. He carefully watched Bumblebee, who was 'helping,' run laps around the work area and waited for the opportune moment to slip away. With Bulkhead busy with his favorite type of work, and Bumblebee indulging his frame's need for movement, neither of them would notice he was gone.

Ratchet wanted to discuss the autopsy results and Optimus wanted Bee and Bulkhead left out of the proceedings. They'd be filled in later, of course, but Ratchet's report might have to be censored to meet the clearance level and, more importantly, the age level of the two Bots in question. Prowl wasn't sure that keeping them in the dark was a good idea in the long run, but Ratchet had backed Optimus in his argument. So Prowl was slipping away unnoticed to med bay under the pretext of making sure they'd unloaded all their cargo.

Optimus and Ratchet were waiting for him when he got there, as was a small, tightly sealed box covered in medical markings. Copious medical markings. And a hazmat sticker or two. Ratchet had obviously prepped the arm for transport and was taking no chances with some Bot mistaking it for salvage and melting down evidence.

"Did you get all the salvage prepped?" Optimus asked as Prowl walked in.

"Everything's secured and ready to be shipped off.” Prowl reported. “Just waiting for Bulkhead to finish."

“And Red Alert’s wire?”

“Coiled and safely packed away in storage. We can hand it over the next time we meet up.”

"All the forms filled out?” Optimus pressed. “Everything properly labeled?"

Prowl just raised an optical ridge. He'd spent the war working as a quartermaster. He knew supply and logistics like the back of his servo. Pit, he'd _written_ the current iteration of the Maintenance Corps' shipping forms. The orn he couldn't properly manage sending half a dozen boxes off for recycling was the orn they sent him off for recycling.

"Yeah, stupid question. I'm sorry, Prowl. I'm just a little worked up is all. Bumblebee and Bulkhead doing ok?"

"Bulkhead's lost in spacebridge diagnostics and Bee's running laps."

"Is Bee going to be alright without supervision? I don't want a repeat of last quartex."

"Ah, stop worrying and leave the kid be." Ratchet grumbled. "Best to let him burn through all that excess energy before he comes back onboard. Otherwise, it'll be parts of the ship you'll have to worry about him damaging."

"I guess you're right." Optimus agreed. "It's not like Command isn't going to melt that stuff down anyway. Ratchet, if you'd like to begin."

Ratchet tapped a few keys and a screen on the nearby wall lit up with an enlarged picture of the arm they had found.

"Well," he began. "Somewhere out there is a mech missing his right arm. He was constructed pre-war, but he definitely died after it. Heavy frame, but I can't say what build without seeing more of him. Damage in the wrist joints is consistent with large amounts of manual labor and not enough self-maintenance. I'm guessing he was originally meant for construction work. There were no foreign contaminants in his system, and none of the other signs present when dealing with poisoning or a major infection. No signs of drug use, either. Looks like the arm was sheared off in a high explosives blast. Used to see a lot of injuries like this after bombardments."

Ratchet turned away from his notes to look at them.

"I hate to be the one to say it, but I think he's a Con. Frame type and age - not to mention the paint samples I took - are consistent with your average Decepticon."

Optimus and Prowl took a moment for that to sink in. Prowl couldn't speak for Optimus, but wasn't feeling particularly happy about this most recent development.

"So, what happened to him?" Optimus asked.

"Frag if I know." Ratchet replied, blunt as ever.

Optimus started. "What?"

"Prime, it was only an arm." Ratchet rubbed the space between his optics. "I can only figure out so much. I can't tell you what killed them. I don't even know if the event which severed his arm actually killed him."

"So, that's it? We've got a Con’s severed arm and no idea what happened or where it came from."

"Sad to say, but your guess is as good as mine."

Optimus stared at the screen for a long moment, trying to puzzle together what had happened from what little they knew.

"Maybe he got kicked out." he suggested finally. "We've known Cons to do that before, throw out members who don't fall in line. He found a piece of debris to cling to while adrift, but died of exposure. Most mechs can survive in a vacuum even without proper preparations, but not indefinitely. He was just out there too long. Probably collided with something after he'd drifted off into stasis, severing his arm and causing the debris cloud."

Ratchet gave a thoughtful hum, considering. "Good theory. But I've got some problems with it. From what I can extrapolate from his remains, this would've been one durable slagheap. He would've starved first. And I see none of the classic signs. When starvation sets in, the frame starts pulling resources from wherever it can. The energon in the lines gets thinner and thinner, and those lines contract without nice thick energon to keep them in shape. A mech starves for long enough, and those lines can even collapse. His plating would've also thinned out, become more brittle. But this mech? Maybe a bit underfed, but he was still plenty healthy when whatever happened happened."

"Plus," he continued. "When’s the last time the Cons actually exiled one of their own? All the lone stragglers reported in the last decavorn have been out there at least that long. Whatever internal upheaval they went through when they were first banished has long since settled down. And believe me, when Con's get to arguing about who's the mech in charge? They aren't exactly subtle about it. If we were dealing with a coup, there'd be a lot more for me to autopsy."

"Maybe their ship exploded?" Prowl offered.

"Couldn't be." Optimus contested. "If they'd suffered the type of engine failure necessary to blow apart a ship with plating that sturdy, the debris we pulled in would be radioactive enough to light up scans from half a sector away. We didn't get a peep out of our scans, and we were right up on top of it. Plus, an explosion of that magnitude would have scattered wreckage over half the sector."

"And we're sure there's been no reported Decepticon activity?" Prowl pressed.

"I checked in with Teletraan when I wrote up the report." Optimus confessed. "Nothing. Nobody has seen or heard anything that would explain this."

The three of them were silent. They stared at the screen on the wall with varying levels of puzzlement and frustration, trying to figure out what had happened. And what, exactly, would happen to them in turn. 

"Well, something happened." Prowl scowled, arms crossed in front of him.

"Yeah, something." Ratchet snorted. "Got any other brilliant observations?"

"I think- I think we're done here." Optimus sighed. "We just don't have enough to go off of. It's in Command’s servos now."

Ratchet and Prowl bristled, not liking giving up control of so important a situation so easily, but acquiesced. Ratchet switched off the screen, picked up the box containing the arm, and made his way out. Prowl and Optimus followed. No one spoke. No one liked what this might mean.

Bulkhead was still at the control console with they walked outside. Bumblebee was bouncing next to him, apparently having calmed down enough to remain relatively still. The two jostled and joked with each other, but the smiles slid from their faceplates as Ratchet carefully placed his box with the rest of the shipment.

"Alright, Bulkhead, start her up." Optimus called.

Bulkhead obliged and a rippling sphere of warp energy manifested in the middle of the two bridge towers. Optimus engaged the hover lifts on the cart on which they'd stacked and secured their shipment. He gave it a push up to the spacebridge and then released it, letting its momentum and the pull of the portal carry it to its destination. The crew backed up to watch it go, at a respectable distance in case something went wrong.

Prowl watched the arm disappear with an feeling settling in his tank that he had no name for, but had become accustomed to during the war. It was resting in fortified areas away from the immediate threat of battle, but never quite managing to relax out of the constant ready state, even in the calm, because you knew the Decepticons were out there. They were coming. You didn't know when, but they were coming. _They were coming_. And the worst part was that until the moment came and passed, you were never certain who was going to break.

Prowl wasn't a betting mech, but he had a feeling that - if another conflict really was on the horizon - the smart money wouldn't be on them.

  



	6. Chapter 6

The crew had unanimously decided that Prowl's run in with the Decepticon wreckage, on top of the mandate from Command, was entirely too much excitement for one cycle and had once more given Prowl comms duty. Prowl was a little disappointed. Not at missing out on repair work, but at missing the opportunity to talk to Hound. With their shared holo-projector upgrades and a love of nature - even organic nature - Hound was one of the few mechs that Prowl would happily converse with for more than a few breems at a time. Still, if the crew wanted him to sit in a chair for a joor or two while they performed manual labor, he wasn't going to argue. 

Even if he had recently come across some new stills of organic flora. The 'flowers' were so delicate, so beautiful. And they came in so many _colors._

Oh, well. The stills could wait. And at least this time he didn't have to worry about making small talk. Hubcap, the Outer Territories' current Communications Officer, had been called in from another crisis to expedite the repair process because signal outages were starting to impact more crews than was wise. By this point he'd been working for almost three orns straight, was in desperate need of some rest, and was in no mood for pleasantries. He'd given Prowl a very terse hello, requested not to be disturbed unless something had gone catastrophically wrong, and promptly dropped off into recharge.

Prowl just took it as a sign that the universe was cutting him a break and let him be.

Though, to be fair, he did wish the universe had given him enough prior warning that he could have brought a datapad to read. Or maybe something to work on. Watching Teletraan's load bar wasn't exactly engrossing and the ship wasn't angled correctly to allow him to watch the crews at work. Occasionally, he'd catch a glimpse of a Bot tinkering with something at this end of the communications relay before they moved on, but, mostly, he was left with an unobstructed view of space which, while nice, was something he'd seen a lot of. After a while, the stars lost some of their magic and gazing out into them was only really useful for quite introspection.

Maybe Bumblebee had some games installed on one of the datapads littering his workstation. Prowl wasn't usually one to engage in such frivolity, but it wasn't like the crew had given him comms duty expecting him to be productive. Pit, they'd had the communication relay shut down for the first part of his shift. This was clearly an attempt on the part of the crew to give him some free time away from danger and Prowl wasn't about to waste their kindness on worrying about his current situation.

Prowl had already spent enough time staring morosely into the middle distance recently, thank you very much.

As it turned out, Bumblebee did indeed have some games stashed away and Prowl picked one at random and made a note to look the other way the next time he saw the yellow mech goofing off while on duty. The Cybertronian entertainment industry had never really recovered from the war, so the game was some pre-war time waster centered around tiny aliens that squished when you tapped them. They appeared to be stacking themselves up in pyramids in order to reach... something. Prowl wasn't really sure about what the plot was supposed to be, but it seemed to be up to him to stop their nefarious goals. He started tapping.

He wondered idly if the tiny aliens were fictional or if they had been based on some existing species. History wasn't his specialty and it wasn't like they got a lot of outside visitors these days. Cybertron's allies and trade partners had long since severed ties and the gentle coaxing of Ultra Magnus and various dignitaries had yet to make any headway. Compared with the glittering jewel it had once been, Cybertron most closely resembled a smoldering dumpster fire that hadn't quite decided if it was done burning yet. Add in the xenophobic attitudes of the Cybertronian populace, and it was no wonder they were in no hurry to come back.

In the end, he supposed it didn't matter what they were based on. He tapped one of the aliens, which exploded, toppling half the pyramid and earning himself several thousand points. For all that Prowl could make no sense of what, exactly, he was accomplishing by squashing these strange invaders, he had to admit it was strangely relaxing. It was also surprisingly easy to get lost in for how simple it was, which was why, when the comms went off, he had no idea how long he'd actually been playing.

"Incoming call from Cybertron." Teletraan announced in a pleasantly neutral voice. "Ministry of Science, R&D Department, hailing Autobot repair ship Omega. Ministry of Science, R&D Department, hailing Autobot repair ship Omega."

"Put it through." Prowl directed, turning off the datapad and placing it atop a neat stack of identical datapads. It wouldn't do to appear unprofessional, even if he had nearly cleared level twenty-three.

"Establishing connection."

A viewscreen winked into existence in front of the bridge's forward window, made the usual chime to indicate a call was being started, and then utterly failed to display the image of the Bot on the other end. 

"Um... Hello?" came a voice. "Repair ship Omega? Do you copy? Anybody home?"

"R&D, this is repair ship Omega." Prowl replied. "We copy. This sector is currently experiencing comms difficulty due to a damaged communications relay. I apologize for any inconvenience. May I ask the nature of this call?"

"Well, hey there Omega crew! I guess that explains why I don't have a visual. Though, if I did, you wouldn't even have to ask while I was calling."

"I'm sorry?"

"Geeze, Prowl. I know it's been a while, but I didn't think it'd take you this long to figure it out. It's me!"

What mechs did he know who worked in R&D? He thought for a moment, before arriving at the obvious answer.

"Wheeljack?" he hazarded.

"Got it in one! I didn't even have to give you any hints."

Prowl felt himself relax out of the professional posture he'd adopted when he'd accepted the call. Wheeljack was what those in the Corps called a 'Part-Timer.' He existed in that fine line between being a necessity and being a liability. Every so often, Command would get tired of dealing with him and toss him out into space with the repair mechs. He'd usually join up with Optimus' crew, due to his odd friendship with Ratchet, and work with them for a quartex or two until Command remembered why them kept him around and recalled him back to Cybertron for this, that, or the other.

"Good to hear from you. What - or who - did you blow up this time?"

Wheeljack just laughed at the accusation. "I'm not always blowing stuff up, you know. But I am looking for a place to stay. You think Optimus would be willing to put up with me for a while?"

"I'm sure Optimus would be glad to have you. It's Ratchet you really need to be worried about."

Wheeljack laughed again. "Glad to see you're developing that sense of humor. Ask Optimus for me, would you? I'll be coming out on the next resupply run, got all my stuff packed and all the necessary forms filled out and everything. Oh, and could you let Optimus know he'll be picking up some part-timers in addition to the usual crew rotation?"

"Anyone I know?"

"Well, there's Blaster."

"Oh, no." Prowl winced. "The symbiotes again?"

"Yeah." Wheeljack affirmed, much less jovial than before. "There was another incident. I don't know the details, but Blaster. Is. MAD. Stormed out of the Metroplex and hasn't been back since. The higher-ups have sent some Bots out to talk to him, and he's just about screamed the audials off of all of them. I've never seen him like this."

Blaster was a part-timer much like Wheeljack. However, unlike Wheeljack, no one in Command took offence at Blaster himself. He was charming, hard-working, and brilliant at his job. There were rumors that he'd even been considered for the position of Head of Communications on Cybertron before Longarm had got the job. No, the problem was Blaster's symbiotes, although Blaster would take offense if he heard you referring to them as 'problems.' A large portion of the Bots Blaster worked with refused to treat them with the respect they were owed as sparked beings. Instead, they were treated like animals or unusually clever drones.

Blaster was good natured, and could put up with a lot, but the mistreatment of his 'mini-mechs', as he call them, was something that would not stand. Every so often he'd get fed up with the way they were treated and storm off into the Outer Territories of his own accord. He was welcomed with open arms by the Bots out in space, who were happy to work with someone of his caliber. Blaster also ingratiated himself with any Bot stuck on comms duty by playing music and old audio recordings on comms channels that hadn't seen use since the war. It made long stretches stuck in the bridge infinitely more bearable.

Command would leave him alone for a time, let him cool off, before luring him back with promises of better treatment for those mechs under his protection. Promises they never managed to keep for long, thus perpetuating Blaster's cycle of coming and going.

Prowl shook his helm in sympathy. "How long is he going to be out here this time?"

"Honestly, I don't know if Command's gonna be able to get him back this time. The Outer Territories might be looking at a permanent Head Communications Officer."

"Well, we'll be glad to have him, although I wish it were under better circumstances. Are we expecting anyone else?"

"Two more. The first is just some kid who ran afoul of someone more powerful than himself, though I doubt he'll be out there long. They want to teach him a lesson, not get rid of him."

"I'm sure Optimus can find a crew willing to take him on for a while. If not, he can always go to an asteroid base. Rodimus doesn't say no to extra help either. Who's the last arrival?"

"Well..." Wheeljack hesitated.

Prowl paused. He'd never heard Wheeljack sound so hesitant except in the face of an enraged Ratchet.

"Wheeljack?" he prompted.

"Look- I just- You can't be mad, ok?"

"Mad?" he blinked, totally lost. "Mad about what?"

"You know about the repopulation plan, right? Never mind, of course you know. Well, Command has already matched the first wave of participants and are starting to send out assignments. Most of the ones for Bots on Cybertron have gone out, though Bots out in space probably haven't received theirs yet. Especially not if you're having comms trouble."

"Already?" Prowl asked. "That was fast." Much faster than Prowl had anticipated. Command's bureaucracy usually took forever to get big projects up and running.

"What can I say?" Prowl could almost envision the accompanying shrug. "Magnus is taking this very seriously."

Wheeljack gave an awkward cough. "Anyway, I got to talking with this mech from the Elite Guard - real nice mech, not your usual snob - and it turns out he'd been selected. Now, I know Prowl's not exactly an uncommon name, but there was this blurb on his results sheet - you'll see when you get yours - and I thought it sounded an awful lot like you."

Prowl froze. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as he thought it was going to be.

"So, we got to talking about you and the crew and how I was planning to head out and see you all and he thought maybe it would be a good idea to come out and meet you before Command involved in the whole process." Wheeljack rambled. "He's put in for vacation time, and he's hoping that Optimus would be willing to take on an extra crew member while he got a head start on getting to know you. Frankly, I think he just wanted to get away from work for a bit. Can't really blame him. I'd probably have made a run for the Outer Territories a long time ago if I had to deal with his boss on a regular basis. He's perfectly willing to work while he's out there and he's really laid back and friendly and it's not like I told him _everything_ about you - I mean, your vocalizer might as well be broken when it comes to talking about yourself so it wasn't like there was much to tell - and he genuinely seems to want to get to know you and... Prowl? You there? Look, you can't kill me. Ratchet's already got first dibs."

"What's his name?" Prowl asked numbly.

"Oh! Uh, it's Jazz."

"Jazz." he repeated, voice unreadable.

"Like I said, he's really nice. Probably one of the nicest Bots I know. Plus, he's a cyberninja, just like you. I'm sure you'll both have a lot to talk about."

The last bit of hope Prowl had been clinging to violently sputtered out.

"I see." Prowl heard himself say distantly. "Well, thank you, Wheeljack. I'll be sure to pass all that on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to inform Optimus that video's out on comms. And, doubtless, he'll want to begin making arrangements for your arrival."

"I guess I'll talk to you later. And, Prowl? I'm sure everything will be fine. Wheeljack out."

The viewscreen winked back out of existence and Prowl sat dumbly at his station. This was so much worse than Prowl had been expecting. Much, much worse. Maybe it wasn't too late to become a neutral. Maybe this time he'd do a better job off on his own. He thought about the arm. Ok, maybe now wasn't the time to live out in the fringes of Autobot space. Maybe he should just leave altogether. Maybe there were small, squishable aliens out there who would be willing to take him in.

The console gave a little blip, and for a moment Prowl thought Wheeljack was calling him back to tell him it had all been a joke. Instead, Teletraan automatically forwarded the call from Optimus from Prowl's comm line to the main console.

"Hey, Prowl, I think we're just about finished out here, how are things with you?"

"Wheeljack called. I got audio, but no visual. You'll need to check your connections again, something's clearly still on the fritz."

"Ok. I'll pass it on. You going to tell me what's wrong?"

Prowl gave a minute twitch, wondering when Optimus had learned how to read him this clearly. He supposed there was no point in lying.

"I've been assigned a partner for the reproduction program. He'll be coming in with Wheeljack on the next resupply shipment."

"So soon?"

"Apparently, Magnus is really serious about this." Prowl parroted dryly.

"Of course he is." Optimus sighed. "Alright, give me a moment here. I'll round up the crew and we'll be up in five."

"No, Optimus, you don't have to-"

"Prowl, I know I don't have to. I want to. We all do. You'd do the same if it were one of us in your situation. Just sit tight and we'll be up in a minute to help you figure out what you're going to do next. Ok?"

"Ok." Prowl acquiesced.

"Good." Optimus said. "Also, if you try to run away again, I'm going to have Bulkhead sit on you."

  


* * *

  


By the time the others had piled into the bridge, Prowl had shaken off enough of the shock to start feeling stupid. Seriously, couldn't he deal with things like the highly trained warrior he was? At the very least, he should be acting better than some new frame who hadn't even figured out how to walk yet. There was no reason that each new development from Command should send him into a blind panic. For Primus' sake, he'd been through sieges with more aplomb than this.

 _Cyberninja._ A voice in the back of his mind whispered. _They're sending you a cyberninja._

Ok, so maybe at least some of his panic was warranted.

"Alright." Ratchet grumbled and dropped into his station. "What's happened now?"

"Prowl's been matched." Optimus explained.

"They're really pushing this, aren't they? Who's the lucky mech?"

"Wheeljack says his name is Jazz. He's a member of the Elite Guard."

The crew all made faces at the announcement. The Elite Guard were the best of the best. Maintenance was widely considered to be made up of washouts and the dregs of society. Meetings between the two groups, rare as they might be, went about as well as you might expect.

"Optimus and Rodimus were in the Elite Guard, and they're not so bad." Bulkhead offered, trying to put a positive spin on things.

"What are they even sending someone like that out here for?" Ratchet puzzled. "I figured they’d use us for test subjects before dragging anyone else into this."

"I heard that they're trying to keep things fair." Bumblebee chirped. "In fact, Magnus specifically requested that he be the first one matched for the program because he didn't want us to think that we were being ordered to do anything he wouldn't do."

Optimus blinked. "Well, that does sound like something the Magnus would do. Where did you hear about this?"

Bumblebee propped his feet up with a smile. "Oh, a Bot has his sources."

Ratchet gave a derisive snort. "Kid, your last 'source' told you that interfacing involved three lengths of rubber hose and an electric prod."

Bumblebee blinked. "It doesn't?"

"Not unless you like things interesting. You really need to stop believing everything you hear."

"Ok, so maybe this 'Jazz' got picked because Magnus doesn't want to play favorites." Optimus mused. "That doesn't explain what he's doing rushing out here. If anything, I would've figured he'd be less enthusiastic about being paired with you than you are. No offense, Prowl."

"None taken."

"Well, maybe he's just agreeing because of the benefits." Bulkhead spoke up.

The crew turned to blankly look at Bulkhead.

"What benefits?" Prowl queried.

"This isn't one of those 'I heard this from a Bot who heard this from a Bot' type thigs, is it?" Ratchet asked skeptically.

"No, no, no." Bulkhead waved his servos. "I was just talking with Grapple - I wanted to know if he had any spare tungsten - and he's involved in this huge project back on Cybertron. He says they're building housing specifically for Bots in the project."

That gave the rest of them pause. Housing was still somewhat hard to come by planetside. Most of the reconstruction efforts had been focused on infrastructure and fortifications. A good portion of the population was still living in barracks, dormitories, or other types of communal housing. In order to get a place of their own, a Bot had to apply for the housing lottery. Because of this, and the low rate of construction, Bots were looking incredibly long wait times and not much say in what kind of housing they were assigned. The prospect of a decent apartment would be incredibly attractive to some, even if they would be sharing it with a virtual stranger. 

"Plus, you're supposed to get more time off to get to know each other and extra energon rations so you're strong enough for... um... whatever it is they want you to do." Bulkhead trailed of uncertainly.

"I'd put up with Prowl if it meant I got to sleep in." Bumblebee grinned.

Prowl threw Bumblebee's alien tapping datapad back at him. Not hard enough to break the pad, or even accurate enough to hit Bumblebee. It did, however, cause the yellow speedster to fall out of his chair, so Prowl considered it a win.

"So some Elite Guard crankshaft is going to try to schmooze his way to better living." Ratchet scoffed. "Seems harmless enough, and we can put him in his place if he gets any ideas. We've run off the Guard before."

"Ratchet." Optimus warned. "There's no need to be hostile from the start if the situation doesn't warrant it. If he's really just after benefits, then we can't expect him to do anything that would put his advancement at risk. Plus, Wheeljack's vetted him. He wouldn't have let him come out here if he was going to cause trouble. Or, at the very least, he would have warned us first. Prowl, you're not expecting any trouble, are you?"

"He's a cyberninja." Prowl stated, as if it explained everything. Which it did.

"Oh." said Optimus. "That's- Oh."

If the crew had come aboard looking slightly concerned for Prowl's wellbeing, they now looked outright panicked. Prowl's interactions with cyberninjas always went one of three ways. Scenario one: the cyberninja in question would spot Prowl, hurl off all number of insults, and then attempt to start a physical altercation. Scenario two: the cyberninja in question would spot Prowl, pause for a moment, and then continue on as if he wasn't there. Some made facial expressions as if they had spied something particularly unpleasant. Scenario three was the worst. In the third scenario, the cyberninja in question would spot Prowl and come over to introduce themselves. They'd start a polite conversation that they'd inevitably steer towards Prowl's cyberninja training. Or lack thereof. Prowl's history with the order was a still a gaping chink in his armor and they knew it, and they would smile and try to shove as many sharp comments and barbs there as possible. They’d throw his own disgrace back at him with as much force as they could muster.

In the end, it didn't matter what they did or didn't do. Their optics always said the same thing.

_Murderer._

The accusation alone hurt more than anything else they could do.

"I thought the whole point of this was to have you, like, fall in love and stuff. Not kill each other!" Bumblebee exclaimed.

"Well, maybe they didn't know." Bulkhead suggested.

"How could they not know!?" Optimus sputtered. "After the huge affair they made out of it at the trial? How could they not-"

Prowl held up a servo. "Actually, they might not. My trial wasn’t widely broadcast, or even known. The Council is aware of the situation, but they consider the matter closed. Cyberninja keep their affairs to themselves, their attitudes towards me might be hidden from anyone outside the order. Plus, since the charges were expunged from my records, whoever is overseeing the matching process wouldn't have seen any red flags. If anything, us both being cyberninja might have been viewed as favorable and providing us with a common starting ground."

"Maybe if we explained the situation to the Bots in charge of the program, they'd assign you someone else." Optimus suggested.

"Would they assign me someone else before the resupply ship gets in? Because that's when he's coming. And I don't see anyone getting back to us by the end of the cycle."

"And, for all we know, 'Jazz' may have expedited things just to get a shot at Prowl." Ratchet chimed in.

"Not gonna happen." Bulkhead glowered.

"Can I have battle-grade stingers now?" Bumblebee asked. "I can help chase him off."

"No." Ratchet admonished. "That's the most convincing argument you've made for them so far, but the answer’s still no."

"If we can't turn him back, we'll have to deal with him when he gets here. Prowl, I know you like your space, but I think you should stay with another crew member at all times.” Optimus ordered. “I'll brush up on rules and regulations. At the first sign of trouble, he's gone. However, my previous order still stands. Try to keep hostility to a minimum. Don't go starting anything before he does, he might be able to turn it back on us. Prowl, are you going to be able to hold out for a while?"

"Most of the cyberninja I've come across haven't taken long to start something. And they haven't been very subtle. However, I don't know if you're going to be able to handle someone of his caliber if things go poorly."

"Prowl, we might not have the best training, but we have one tactical advantage that he doesn't. We outnumber him. If he starts anything, he's going to be very, very sorry he did."

  



End file.
